Fang Talks

too old for this shit

As an amateur writer I sometimes like writing short, often single-part works. Here you’ll find the ones I chose to publish for whatever reason. Enjoy.

How long has it been? How far have I run?

It feels like weeks ago that fatigue made place for normalcy. My movements are robotic. Stopping them feels wrong, uneasy, painful almost. Had I really not been running since the beginning of time? How did I ever bear standing still? My heart would likely stop beating if I did so now.

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The floorboards creak under its weight, alerting me to its presence.

Like clockwork it has come again. Same time, same day. Though a crack in the doorway I can see it pass, sneaking around the house. The white pattern on its fur gives it a medieval kind of look. I shouldn’t be thinking about it like that though, its eerily human features are clearly part of its hunting skills.

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Discard what you know. Abandon what you feel.

Free will? Did you skip primary school or something? Surely you know we’re all just automatons, powered by a beating and pulsating magical core? An individual’s perception and sense of self are just illusions caused by the flow of akak being bound by their veins, rather than freely throughout the world. Bleeding is a blissful experience, letting you briefly unite with the world around you before depriving your core of the high akak pressure it needs to function.

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03 11 17


‘Is this… art?’

‘I don’t see this being reasonably manufacturable.’ Norman touched his hand to the canvas. The bright white stretched up and to the side for a mile. He gave it a gentle push. ‘It’s stretched really taut, too…’
‘No, no, you got it wrong.’ Robert took a few steps back and gave the plane another long look. ‘I meant art in the same sense that crop circles are art.’
Norman did a double-take turning to face his colleague. ‘You mean, “out of this world”?’ Air quotes complemented his judgmental expression.
‘Imagine!’ But a few moments later, his enthusiasm had worn off. ‘Or like a prank to make us think so. I don’t know.’

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‘Special delivery!’ He practically kicked in the door. It wasn’t actually locked however, so his momentum sent him stumbling forward.

‘Jesus Christ, Bennet, I almost fucked this guy up.’ Andre shook his head, then put the tattoo machine back to his client’s skin. ‘Throw it on the shelf, with the rest of them.’
‘Huh?’ Bennet yelled. ‘Can’t hear ya over these beats man.’ It was true, the bass was shaking the floorboards.
A woman, late forties, was sat on a couch next to the mentioned shelf. She waved Bennet over. ‘Hi again honey. Where’s this going?’
‘Some guy Wong Lang, North Beach section C.’ He saw her brow furrow, responded with his usual nervous laugh. ‘They don’t mess around with these codenames, eh?’

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